


suramar blossoms

by zunshtral



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe, Death Knight, Demon Hunters, Genderfluid Character, Legion - Freeform, M/M, i dont know what to tag this as my dudes its an oc au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 01:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17091785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zunshtral/pseuds/zunshtral
Summary: Lior’s arm shifts, sliding up around his shoulders as their head rests against his chest. He knows they’ll hear nothing there, but something twists anyway, his palm against the small of their back. The flowers from earlier are gone from their hair, but he’s close enough to smell them. Blackberries and Suramar blossoms.





	suramar blossoms

**Author's Note:**

> the title in my gdocs is 'fellas is it gay to kiss a succubus' and honestly no title will ever be better than that

Rassian didn’t even want to be here.

The nightborne of Suramar threw a grand party for the heroes of Azeroth following the success of the Nighthold. The rest of the Order leaders were there, being honored and celebrated for what they’d done to liberate the city, the Kirin Tor making speeches about bravery and courage.

What a joke.

He tunes out the ceremony, already knowing he wouldn’t be called up and honored with medals to the public. Like the mages would ever give a monster recognition, despite his axe being cleaved into Gul’dan’s body and ending everything. The driving force behind everything, yet no one had the guts to acknowledge it. Pathetic.

The wrecking crew, he’d been called, and that reminds him to look around the room. It’s easy to find Lior, like his eyes could lock onto them from anywhere, the other half of the monsters of the isles. It strikes him as strange, the first thing he notices is their skin nearly completely covered, olive and purple hidden beneath a white sheath dress. He feels something about it, and chalks it up to being too used to seeing them bare-chested and armored.

Their hair is twined with Suramar blossoms, the mana flowers they’d been forced to hunt for in the city under disguise, distracting him for too long a minute that Coriblanc presses into his side obnoxiously. He’d almost forgotten she dragged him here, grimacing under his veil. “Is that your little demon friend? Come, let’s say hello!”

She drags him by the tie before he can really dig his heels in, irritation already rising when he realizes all too soon Lior is with someone as well. 

Cori parks them in front of the Illidari, and he tunes out her petty chatter. Lior’s face is bare, forgoing a blindfold to show their eyes, and their smile is polite and empty. It’s too different from their usual grins, bright and perky, so he turns his focus to size up their date.

A large man, red hair tied back neatly and wearing similar formal clothing. His smile is also broad and placid, and Rassian recognizes him vaguely as Lior’s right hand. High Overseer, he remembers distantly, though they’ve never spoken. One of his arms is around Lior’s waist, hand resting on their hip. Rassian’s jaw tightens with something that feels too close to jealousy.

Cori smacks his chest for attention, and he cuts her a glare. 

“Apologies for my  _ fiance’s _ rudeness, he’s never been good at parties.” Cori’s tone is sharp and amused, and Rassian wants to remind her yet again they’re not engaged. He grunts. He didn’t even want to be here. Cori’s eyes roll, droning again.

The hand on Lior’s hip shifts, disappearing behind their back and only a second later does Lior’s smile hitch, genuinely amused at something. It takes Rassian a moment to realize their date just grabbed their ass, and his hands clench to fists. Lior glances at him for a moment knowingly. 

“I hate to be rude,” Lior interrupts Cori, their smile polite and the right amount of fake regretful, “but my Commander and I need a word with the Battlelord, and I’m afraid we’ll never catch her if we don’t now.” They barely give Cori a chance to say goodbye before both Illidari make their exit, the commander’s hand on Lior’s lower back as they leave the room towards a balcony.

The Battlelord is in the opposite direction. 

Rassian slips a hand under his veil to rub his eyes, already tired and wanting to return to Acherus. Cori huffs, muttering something he doesn’t listen to, detaching from his side to look for her next victim. How many more people is she going to parade him to, he wonders, repeating the word fiance until it makes his ears bleed.

Cori raises a hand behind him, waving to someone and calling a name. “Oh, Netherlord-!”

He makes his escape while he can, leaving her in the main room as he follows the same path Lior and their commander took. He lack of armor means he at least doesn’t clunk the whole way, so he takes the lack of his name being shrieked as a sign he got away successfully.

The balcony door slides closed after him, and one hand goes to the inside of his jacket to find his cigarette tin when he pauses. Lior and their commander are indeed on the balcony, huddled with their faces close as Lior gives one of their quiet giggles. Rassian clears his throat, and the two lean apart to look at him quickly. Lior’s lips are flushed looking, and he feels something savage in his chest for a second as they wipe their mouth, gesturing for the commander to leave. 

He edges past Rassian, keeping his head down as the balcony door slides open and shut again, leaving just him and Lior in the night air.

His hands finally work enough to pull a cigarette from his case, moving to stand by the railing and light it. He can feel a headache forming already, but at least it’s quiet out here. Lior smoothes their hair as they come to his side, leaning both arms on the railing in silence.

Rassian wants to touch them. Put his arm around their waist, rest his palm against their lower back, make them squeal and giggle as he teases them during meetings. He wants.

He settles for closing his eyes and letting smoke fill his dead lungs.

The silence lingers longer, but it eases into something more familiar. How many times had they sat in Rassian’s office, writing up reports together with no noise other than Lior’s breathing and pens scratching, comfortable in the months they’d been partnered together. Their nails drum quietly against the railing, a rhythm he knows well enough. He flicks the butt of his cigarette away, pulling out another, and Lior snaps to create a small red-pink fire and light it for him.

“You escaped quick enough, Deathlord,” Lior’s smile is alive again, teasing gently. Rassian snorts, blowing his smoke away. “By some miracle, yes.”

Lior touches him, quick and gentle, tracing the shoulder seam of his jacket. They know their relationship has to appear strictly professional to everyone else, but they’re alone out here, and for some reason he appreciates it. “I thought you were about to chew your arm off.”

“She’d rip it off herself before I got the chance,” he coughs slightly, only partially from smoke, “Happened once.”

Lior smiles, but it falters quickly as they look down to his hands. Their face hardens, and his eyebrows furrow for a moment. Lior clears their throat, looking away. Their voice is flat. “What a great wife she’ll make.” 

Rassian exhales through his nose, sighing heavily. “I have no say in the matter.”

It’s another moment before they look back, apologetic and as weary as he feels about the topic. How much Cori disrupts even his shorted moments of quiet, even when she isn’t here. “I know,” they murmur, letting silence fall another second before clearing their throat, “Do you think the flowers were too much?”

He shakes his head, smiling faintly underneath his veil. “They’re a lovely touch. I don’t want to get too close and wilt them, though.” He nods toward a vine wrapped around the railing, withering just in his proximity.

“I’m sure I could find somewhere to put them safely for a while…” Lior’s tone is suggestive, like many times they’ve drawn him away to a cave or clearing for a break, and he almost wants to say yes. Leave quietly and skulk their way through Suramar to find an empty house, exist as monsters together in peace.

“I wouldn’t want to steal you from your date,” he says instead, clearing his throat. As much as he wants to, he can’t forget the estate full of partygoers and people expecting them inside. Both their commanders, most likely missing their presence. He didn’t even want to be here.

Lior shrugs, tapping the railing again. “He’s here for moral support, someone I can complain to in Demonic. He’s probably stuffing his face inside.” They give him a look again, curious this time. How easy it would be to leave.

He looks over his shoulder instead, through the glass door and into the party. From here he can see Cori, practically wrapped around the Highlord and touching his line of shiny new medals. His arm is around her back, pressed to one of the many sections of exposed skin. He looks back, and Lior’s face is concerned.

“I know somewhere private… if you’d like the quiet.”

He looks back again, and this time Cori’s eyes meet his. She smiles viciously, just for him, hand raised to give a little wave of her fingers. The Highlord’s hand strokes down her thigh, unashamed and unaware. His head bows slightly, running a hand through his hair. Pathetic.

“You know where to find me,” Lior’s touch on his arm is gentle, barely there for him to feel let alone see, but he watches them from behind his veil as they hitch up their skirt to vault over the balcony railing. Their landing is quiet, even in the dark, the sound of feathered wings all too familiar by now. In the low light, he watches them walk towards the garden.

How much every bone in his body wants to follow.

His cigarette is almost burned to the filter, so he grinds the thing against the railing and stares out across Suramar. He didn’t even want to be here, surely no one would mind his checking out early. No one wanted to approach the infamous Deathlord Dreadsong anyway, despite everything he’d done for the victory here. Ungrateful bastards. Rassian pushes himself away from the railing, turning to find an easier way into the gardens.

Cori is blocking his way. He hadn’t even heard her approach, lacking her usual plate. His hand clenches on the railing, but lacking his usual claws, it’s nowhere near satisfying. “Scare off your little Illidari friend, sweetheart?”

“No,” is his immediate answer, though a strange part of him recoils at hearing the pet name from her. It sounds wrong with the echo of undeath, lacking the soft melodics of Lior’s voice. Cori leans against the railing near him, looking all too pleased with herself. The expression makes Rassian dig his fingers into the stone harder, wishing he had claws to break it.

“Then you sent them off? Good. Quite rude to hog a woman’s fiance at a party,” She stretches, showing the expanses of exposed skin from her gown. 

Rassian thinks of white against Lior’s skin. Silver bracers too close to armor to be jewelry. Suramar blossoms in their hair. His eyes close. “We aren’t engaged.”

He’s all too aware of her voice, the hissy tones as she goes into a familiar tirade. His free hand comes up to rub his eyelids over his veil, feeling once again bone-tired just by her presence. He didn’t even want to be here. The railing creaks under his hand, solid stone giving way ever so slightly to his fingers, spider-web cracks. “ **_Enough_ ** .”

Cori stops, and when he looks at her the irritation is as plain as his own. He doesn’t care, not tonight. His heart doesn’t beat, but something in him pulses with  _ go away, go away, go away.  _ Rassian takes a breath, growls it out. “Go back inside, Dread Commander. That’s an order.”

He leaves before she can argue. He can hear her shriek one last time, a loud  **_DREADSONG!_ ** ringing over the party, but he doesn’t have the energy tonight to deal with that argument again. No one bothers him as he ventures deeper into the estate, scattering from his path as he finds his way towards the garden doors. He pauses just outside it, hand on one of the crystalline knobs, leaning forward to rest his head against the cold glass.

He didn’t even want to be here.

The air outside is clear and fresh. Though he doesn’t need to breath, the change from stuffy perfumed party air is welcome, and his eyes adjust to the darkness outside well enough. The hedges are high but lined with tiny strings of lights, thankfully wide enough his aura only withers the edges of the leaves. He ventures deeper into the garden, the hammering in his temple from the argument dulling into something manageable. He takes another step, and his ears perk high when the silence turns to something else.

Humming. A familiar melody, one he must have heard thousands of times by now. He follows his ears, drawn towards the song in a way that almost makes him laugh to himself. How many times had he compared the Slayer to one of the naga siren’s, a voice that could make any ordinary man weak.

The hedges part into a small clearing, and the sight of his siren fills him with something almost like relief. They sit on the other side of a carved stone fountain, head tilted and eyes closed as they hum. He knows Lior too well by now though, seeing the pleased smile and perked ears, even as he approaches to flick water from the fountain at them. An eye opens, familiar burnished gold. “I thought you’d keep me waiting all night, Deathlord.”

Rassian laughs, quiet and low in his chest, holding a hand out to Lior. They take it, and his humming joins theirs as his other hand finds their hip. He never tires of the green flush that comes to their cheeks, finding a slow rhythm to sway in, the soft fabric under his hand warm from their skin. The garden is quiet aside from their duet, not even the music from the party ruining their tiny patch of silence.

Lior’s arm shifts, sliding up around his shoulders as their head rests against his chest. He knows they’ll hear nothing there, but something twists anyway, his palm against the small of their back. The flowers from earlier are gone from their hair, but he’s close enough to smell them. Blackberries and Suramar blossoms. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Lior murmurs, and Rassian feels that  _ something _ again, visceral and soft at the same time. He squeezes a hand over their hip instead.

“Between you and that…  _ queen _ of mine, there’s no contest of who I’d choose.” Reaching up to his head for the crown he’s been wearing, a symbol of his status among the Scourge, he places it carefully onto Lior’s head. They smile wide, bordering on beaming as they brush their fingers over the bone and iron it’s made of. They sigh happily, and Rassian tucks it away somewhere to commit to memory in his old body.

“Flatterer,” Lior murmurs, cheeks flushed purple and green, “You’re just saying that because my ass looks good in this dress.”

Rassian laughs, emphasizing it with wrapping his arms around Lior’s waist. Their dance has slowed to a stop, but they stay tangled together closely, pressed close enough he can see the stubborn gold glow of their eye. “Maybe so, but you do look good in a crown.”

“I  _ have _ been called the Queen of Pain…” Lior grins back, tail lashing to swat the side of his thigh playfully. The wide swishes behind them are telling, and a small part of Rassian has to agree with the feeling.

His thumbs find the divots in their lower back, resting there as if fit together like puzzle pieces. “You may have heard by now I’m often referred to the King of the Damned.” 

“ _ Really? _ I had no idea,” Lior giggles, soft and delighted, sarcasm heavy in their voice. He hums in agreement, turning to dip them low as a surprise and grinning behind his veil when they squeak, clutching his shoulders until he brings them back up. They look breathless and amused, holding themself close to his chest so he can feel their beating heart. 

“Your majesty,” he murmurs, and Lior sighs again.

“What a pair we make.”

Rassian remembers months ago when they met, Lior’s conspiratory grin as they’d leaned in, telling him the Kirin Tor had put them together only because they were both monsters. “The council was smart to recognize we’d work better together, hm?”

“For once in their lives,” Lior smiles, cheeky and impish as always, “This victory  _ is _ because of us. We deserve a reward.” Their arms slide up around his neck, clasped together and head tilted to look up at him. His crown is too big for their head, but kept in place by a horn. It looks right.

Rassian smiles back. “Is that so? I have a reward in mind for myself…”

“Is  _ that _ so?” Lior echos back, and he can feel more than see the playful flicks of their tail, their nails scratching into the short strands of his hair. “Great minds think alike, Deathlord, so can I.”

His veil is brushed aside enough as he leans down, Lior’s head tilting so he can claim their mouth in a kiss. Their lips part easily, pliant and submissive as his teeth find small nips, the familiar feeling of his nose pressed to their cheek. Kissing has never felt so good in all his years as a dead man, his hands sliding down to hold their hips firmly. Lior rocks up onto their toes, trying to get closer, already wanting more.

He gives it to them, kisses turning deep and as heated as their skin under his hands. He knows by now there’s no succubus influence, his want is his own, fingers digging into the curve of their hip and the narrow cinch of their waist. Lior makes a quiet noise against his mouth, needy and small, and their nails drag through Rassian’s hair. He devours it, like everything they give him.

He wants to be here.

The air is hot around both of them, combined succubus heat and his boiling blood, and Rassian bites their lip hard enough that Lior whines. They’re so alive under his palms, pulling them closer and closer still, feeling gluttonous just for digging into their soft hips. How badly he wants to prop them up against the lip of the fountain, pull their skirt up and feast on their submission, each whimper and gasp of his name. Lior’s entire body sings under his touch, all for him.

_ Mine _ , his addled brain supplies and yes, mine, that feels right.  _ You’re mine _ , he bites into their lip again, making his mark again and again where anyone with eyes could see it.  _ Mine, mine mine. _

Rassian digs his fingers into the back of Lior’s thighs, about to hoist them up against the fountain and do just what he planned, dirty their dress and remind them just who they belong to--

“ **_DREADSONG!_ ** ” 

It’s far enough away Rassian knows he isn’t caught, but the shriek still makes him furious enough to tear something apart for a fleeting moment. He’s forced to pull away, even though Lior chases him with a dazed whine. For just a second, he contemplates throwing them over his shoulder and hauling off to one of their secret places, an abandoned house in the city, but when he turns back to Lior they’re already blank faced and collected. They step out of his arms, smoothing the wrinkles in their dress.

His blood calms, though his hands still want to flex and feel the curve of Lior’s waist. He can hear now the furious stomping of Cori, far enough that they have a moment, but close enough that minutes are too long. He turns back again, and Lior holds his crown out to place back on his head. He fixes it, sighing and opening his mouth to speak.

Lior cuts him off, clipped and polite smile in place. He hates it, the emptiness behind it they paint on when dealing with Coriblanc. Their voice is flat. “Smile for the birdie, Deathlord.”

Cori finds them before he can reply, fuming and radiating enough the hedges blister away. “Where have you  _ been _ ?” she grits, coming to Rassian’s side and digging her fingers into his arm. How revolting the touch is, after Lior’s hands had been soft against him, and the pounding in his head returns fast enough to make him nauseous. 

“I was just congratulating the Deathlord on our victory in Suramar,” Lior’s tail sweeps behind them, casual and unbothered, though he tries not to dissect their body and just how angry they are. He knows all too well. 

Cori’s hands found his tie, attempting to straighten it despite being unbothered, and she  _ hmphs _ loudly. She opens her mouth to reply, no doubt to make some biting remark, but Lior cuts her off as well. They address Rassian alone, head tilting, friendly and practiced. “It’s late. I’ll see you on the islands tomorrow, Deathlord.”

Lior brushes past them both, and Rassian wishes he could go with them. At least one of them would have peace for the night.

His vision is taking up by Cori’s face again, and his eyes close as she takes his hands, forcing them to fit against her waist.

Rassian didn’t even want to be here, not now.


End file.
